


Interlude in a Shack

by sadlikeknives



Category: Benjamin January Mysteries - Barbara Hambly
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-27 20:26:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21124733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlikeknives/pseuds/sadlikeknives
Summary: The shack was nothing, a sort of tumbledown place abandoned by its owners, Cajuns or escaped slaves most likely, long before, but right that minute it looked like the answer to all of Ben's prayers.





	Interlude in a Shack

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skieswideopen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skieswideopen/gifts).

The shack was nothing, a sort of tumbledown place abandoned by its owners, Cajuns or escaped slaves most likely, long before, but right that minute it looked like the answer to all of Ben's prayers. When he shoved the door open he was forced by the crates stacked along one wall to rethink that evaluation.

"Maestro," Shaw said grimly from where he was slumped against Ben's shoulder, "I'm thinkin' those might not have been pattyrollers back there after all."

"What was your first clue?" Ben asked dryly.

"Might have been around when they shot me." If they'd shot Ben, well, that was understandable, at least in the eyes of the law. Shooting a white man, even at a distance when aim was bound to be bad, was not so acceptable. "Although this does explain a few things." Possibly even some things about what had happened to Armand Batailler, whose disappearance was the reason they were out here in the first place. "I'm also thinkin' we might not ought to stick around here."

"We're not going to stay here long," Ben declared, "but I need a look at that wound."

"It's nothing," Shaw, pale, at least half his weight on Ben, protested. "A scratch."

"Yes, that's what Mercutio said as well." Shaw said nothing to that, and Ben wondered vaguely if he recognized the reference or not. The bed didn't bear thinking about, but there was still one intact chair, and into this he deposited Shaw before carefully peeling away his disreputable calico shirt to inspect the wound along the left side of his ribcage. The light was bad and getting worse by the minute as the sun sank, but good enough for him to conclude, "Looks like it's lodged in your ribs." Shaw was going to have a miserable trip back to town and a miserable next few weeks, but it could have been a hell of a lot worse. A little better aim could have hit a lung, or even the heart.

"Feels like it, too," Shaw agreed.

"It'll have to come out, but I can't do it here." Shaw gave him a funny look with those pale eyes of his. "What?"

"'Can't?'"

"What, you want me to do surgery with your hunting knife?"

"I expect you could," Shaw said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe he was used enough to backwoods medicine that it was.

"If I had to," he allowed, "but it hasn't quite come to that yet." Ben stood and went over to the crates along the far wall. "Let's see if our friends have left us anything useful." The first crate he came to wasn't nailed shut, and a brief rummage among the straw revealed a bottle. "I was halfway expecting guns," he admitted, holding it up for Shaw's inspection.

The Kentuckian snorted and said, "I'll give you a nickel if that's really brandy."

Ben wondered at him making out the label in this light, but only said, "I would take that bet if I had a nickel for the pot."

"Hell. Here I was hopin' you'd advance me one."

Ben chuckled and uncorked the bottle, sniffing and then tasting something that definitely was not brandy but concluding, "Well, it probably won't kill you."

Shaw accepted the bottle from him and gave it his own tentative sniff. "Might make you blind," he observed, but he drank from it anyway.

Ben's shirt was white, as good as a beacon in the woods, so he sacrificed it to bind the wound. Shaw took another drink or two of definitely-not-brandy before setting the bottle aside, wanting his wits about him more than he wanted the pain dulled. They were both silent for a moment as Ben worked, and then Shaw said suddenly, "You did medicine full time in Paris?"

"No," Ben said. "That is, I did for a time, but when I met my wife—Ayasha...I had gone as far as I was going to be allowed to go in Paris, and there was no way I could support a family on my salary."

Shaw made a small surprised sound. "Here I thought Paris was...Paris."

"In some ways it is. In some ways it isn't. I quit medicine and turned to music full time. The money was better that way. This is going to hurt," he warned before he tightened the bindings around Shaw's ribs, and Shaw grunted softly. "In truth," he continued to provide a distraction, "I think Ayasha always contributed more to the household than I. She was a fine seamstress. Had her own shop, a couple of apprentices. But you know how it is. A man must provide."

"Hell, maestro," Shaw said, and there was something funny in his voice, something that might have just been the pain. "Where I come from everybody married too young and nobody had nothin' no way." Ben looked up at him, and for a moment Shaw looked as though he might be about to say something else, but then his mouth pinched and he said, "Help me get my shirt back on."

Ben did so, and helped him to his feet, then peered out the door and said, "Sir, if I may--"

"Did you just call me 'sir?'" Shaw asked, incredulous, and Ben looked over at him to find him looking back at Ben as if concerned he'd just lost his mind. Something in Shaw's face changed then, softened, and he said, "Maestro, you will forgive me, I hope, if I am barking up the wrong tree..."

Oh, Ben thought. _Oh_.

So this was happening after all. He had wondered, now and again.

"I expect you haven't ever found yourself at the wrong tree," Ben said, surprised by the softness of his own voice.

"You'd be surprised," Shaw said, and then he kissed him, a quick hard press of lips, and then he drew back, those rainwater eyes searching Ben's face for a long moment. He wondered at what he saw there. Finally, Shaw nodded and said, "Gettin' dark out there. That's good. It'll provide cover."

"Yes," Ben agreed, understanding that now was neither the time nor the place for what had just happened. They would speak of it later, when they were safely back in New Orleans and Shaw didn't have a bullet lodged in his ribs. "Although might I suggest that the next time you need my assistance on a case, perhaps we could avoid traveling through the cipriere at night." He would suggest they try to avoid getting shot at, but he didn't want to seem unrealistic.

"I most fervently hope so," Shaw agreed. "Now if the coast is clear, let's get movin'. It's a long walk back to town, and the sooner we get there the better chance my boys have of gettin' out here before our smuggler friends have a chance to move all the evidence."

"And the sooner I can get that bullet out of your side," Ben pointed out, and Shaw waved that off as irrelevant.

"Yeah, that too." He seemed steady enough on his feet that Ben did not insist on helping him as they left the shack, but he hovered close, ready to offer a hand or shoulder when needed, all the way home.


End file.
